Asphodel
by Square Flea
Summary: [previously known as Orpheus]Some things change and some things never will. Spike follows a pattern as he breaks it, and events unfold that he cannot control. postNFA


Asphodel

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Author's Note: Well, I wrote this a while ago, and recently, I had the chance to go over it. . It used to be called Orpheus, but since then, my plot has changed so much that it no longer applies. Also, I realized that it was the title of an Angel episode; a show of which I am not a huge fan, so I hadn't known. So, I changed the title, fixed some boo-boos, and added a little more to the end of this chapter. Hope you like!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except a lot of free time. XD All characters belong to Mr. Whedon, ME, Fox, whoever else involved that isn't me. .

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Chapter one:

Nocturne

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Five minutes into battle, Spike forgot what he was fighting for.

His sword began to get heavier. He could feel the intricate silver designs on the hilt begin to leave impressions on his fingers. His movements slowed dangerously in his sudden exhaustion. For him, the end was near.

Wasn't that what he wanted? Hadn't he longed for the end every useless second he spent as a ghost? And after that, didn't he wake up every day hoping it had all been a dream, and that any second Dru would waltz into the room, cooing over her latest catch? True, he was sickened at the mere thought of her, at everything they'd done that still lingered, screaming, in the back of his mind, but it would be better than this. Anything would be better than useless fighting, stalling Hell.

_Hell still waits…_

And yet, he fought on. He didn't know why. Nothing would be accomplished. By sunrise, they would all be dead, whether they fought or not. He knew this, but here he was.

All his unlife, he'd been a warrior—mainly because he couldn't bear the thought of being anything else. He'd survived because William would have died.

Then _she _was there, and he was nearly that man again. He could've written a million verses in her image, if only he'd remembered how. If only he hadn't buried William in a century of ash and leather.

Day was coming. Would he feel the unpleasant tingle of sunrise on his skin one last time?

A flash of silver. A moment's worth of burning pain.

Then darkness.

---

Ten minutes into battle, Angel lost sight of his allies.

It was strange, this icy chill in the pit of his stomach. Had he not been about to be skewered by a sharp metal thing, he would have had the luxury of analyzing it, naming it. Was it courage? Was it fear?

He thought he saw a glimmer of platinum blond somewhere to his right, a flash of blue in front of him. How long had they been fighting? Was that sunrise creeping across his skin, urging him to find some dark cold place to hide? Was that Spike's battle cry in the distance?

Strange how the little things matter when one is so close to being beheaded.

He ducked, and the hell demon's blade slashed across his cheek. It was nearly over. A matter of moments would bring the quiet, blissful calm before the eternal torment he'd convinced himself he was ready for.

He killed the next demon with just a little less grace than the last one.

---

_This place was familiar._

_The large bay windows were thrown open, sunlight pouring into the handsome room, a light summer breeze rustling sheer blue curtains. Pages of old books were fluttering over on the oak desk by the bookcase on the opposite side of the room. The furniture was tasteful and classic; all reds and browns and shades of black. Rugs covered most of the pretty hardwood floors._

_His movements were slow and calculated as he made his way over to the desk, his footsteps muffled on the rug. He reached out to the first book his hands touched and pulled it closer to him. The words on the cover were fading. The pages inside were yellow. The corners were all rounded. When he opened the ancient book, he did so carefully._

_"Love itself shall slumber on," he murmured, reading from the passage he'd opened to. He smiled. How fitting._

_A crash tore him from his reverie, and he whipped his head around. An elegant glass vase had fallen from its table—or at least, it had been elegant before it had shattered. He made an impatient sound in the back of his throat and moved to inspect the mess._

_In the middle of the shattered glass were three long stemmed red roses. He picked them up lightly and held them, laid out on his palms. They were wilted, the edges of the petals already turning brown. That was strange. He could have swore he watered them just yesterday…_

_"You never had much luck with those things."_

_He turned his head to regard the new voice, and frowned. Where there had been a sleek coffee table just moments before was a chess board laid out on the floor, surrounded by throw pillows pilfered from the couch. A man sat on one side of the board, legs folded beneath him. His eternally youthful face looked haggard and old as he gestured toward the board._

_"Care for a game?" he asked, smiling._

_"Angel," Spike greeted, "You weren't here before."_

_"I had things going on," he answered, "Come on, play. I'll let you be white this time."_

_Spike snorted._

_"Liar."_

_"No, really, look," Angel pressed, and turned the board around so that the black pieces were on his side, "See?"_

_Spike raised an eyebrow, but nodded and sat on a pillow Indian-style. He sighed._

_"You already got a game going," he pointed out, waving at the board. Angel shrugged._

_"You were late. We can start a new one."_

_Spike smirked, and tipped the board over, letting the pieces scatter over the floor. Some of them clattered as they bounced off the carpet and onto the wood._

_"I didn't mean like that." Angel chastised, but there was a smile on his face that betrayed him, "You know you'll have to clean that up."_

_"I'll worry about that later."_

_"What if you lose the pieces?"_

_Spike rolled his eyes._

_"Most of them were already lost to begin with."_

_An uncomfortable silence fell and lingered for a few moments until Angel broke it._

_"We could play a different game," he offered. He looked around. "I'm sure we could find something different. Don't you have any of your own?"_

_The room grew cold. Spike frowned toward the window. It had gotten dark._

_"Is it snowing?" he asked, standing and jogging over to look outside, "It is snowing. Strange."_

_"Not really," Angel countered, "We've been expecting this. I mean, you could use some change. We both could."_

_"I don't want change," Spike snapped, "I like things the way they were. I like the sun."_

_"Well, it doesn't like you. This is better for you. It's pretty, pure."_

_"Like hell it is."_

_Angel rolled his eyes._

_"You never see what's in front of you. You need to open your eyes."_

_Spike had a good retort. He didn't get the chance to voice it._

_---_

A flash. A swirl of wind. A dull glow in the middle of a battlefield.

A gasping, unneeded breath.

Then light. Blinding. Searing.

Another body in the wreckage.

---

Her heeled boots clacked angrily on the linoleum floor of the hospital waiting room as she paced.

How had this happened? Why hadn't he called? Why hadn't he warned her? Now she was standing in a hospital full of dead innocents because he couldn't pick up a phone.

Since Angel was conveniently absent, she took out her frustration on a cheap plastic chair.

"Calm down, B," drawled an unaffected female voice from behind her. Buffy turned and glared at her. Faith was draped over one of the chairs, an unlit cigarette dangling from her fingers.

"I'm not gonna calm down," she snapped, "I've got a city full of dead things and the only person who could have explained any of it to me is gone. Two of my girls are dead and ten are halfway there. So tell me how—"

"They're my girls, too," Faith cut her off with a glare of her own, "They knew what they were getting themselves into when they signed up for this. Hell, they begged to come here." Her expression softened only minutely as Buffy collapsed in the nearest chair, spent, "It ain't your fault. We won, didn't we?"

Ten hours earlier, they had all stepped off a private plane (a favor from a friend) expecting to see Los Angeles. All they found was a battle zone.

It started with a call from Giles. The gates of hell had opened in L.A., no small feat for a city with no Hellmouth. Fate of the world, blood of the innocent, nothing new. So Buffy had called in the cavalry (one escaped convict, one high school principal, and one very hard-to-reach witch), got out the weapons, gathered the willing, and went home. Or what was left of it.

Los Angeles was gone. Bodies, human and demon, littered the streets, torn open and mostly devoured. An army of assorted demons were found somewhere in the center of town, surrounding what appeared to be the carcass of a dragon, and, being slayers, they had fought. They had, as Faith put it, won… at the expense of a few hundred thousand people and several of her own. None of Angel's gang was to be found.

"Faith," she called, and the dark-haired slayer nodded in acknowledgement, "I need you to go back. Take a few of the girls and Willow. See if she can pick anything up. What did this, why, if they're coming back—anything."

"What about you?"

The patterns on the cheap floor covering were very interesting.

"I can't."

Faith must have accepted this, because when Buffy looked up, she was gone.

Then came the waiting.

---

The 30-minute trip back to L.A. from Santa Clarita was pretty much uneventful, except for the occasional ogre they passed along the way. Faith was content to lounge in the backseat, much to the chagrin of the two other slayer girls back there with her. Kennedy was in the front passenger seat, and Willow was driving. It was night by the time they got there.

The city hadn't changed. The buildings were still gone. The bodies still littered the streets.

They had parked the stolen car on the outskirts of the city to avoid running over the dead. They trekked toward the middle of the wreckage, toward what was left of the Hyperion. The once elegant hotel was only half there, as if someone had taken a wrecking ball to it and changed their mind halfway.

"Here," Willow announced, "It started here. I can feel the magic."

"You sure, Will?" Faith asked, "It seems a little cramped for a war."

"I'm sure. Something happened here. Something big. Something beyond me."

Faith shrugged, and walked on.

"Whatever. Just tell me it's got an ass I can kick, and we'll be fine."

"Faith."

Willow had taken a few nervous steps to the group's right. Faith ignored her.

"What the hell are we looking for, anyway?" she asked, "I mean, if I were gonna demolish a whole freakin' city, I sure as hell wouldn't stick around to get my ass kicked by—"

"Faith."

The dangerous edge to the redhead's voice stopped her. Willow was taking slow, nervous steps toward an alley just north of the hotel.

"Will?"

"I know these magicks. I… don't think—"

Willow cut herself off with a gasp.

"Oh, God."

A glimmer of blonde had caught the girls' attention, and Willow ran to it.

"Wait!" Faith yelled, but too late. The witch had dropped to her knees beside the glimmering blonde thing, and lifted a head into her lap.

Faith felt her body go numb with shock as she caught up to her, staring at the unconscious but otherwise undamaged body wrapped in black leather.

Spike.

"Faith, help me," Willow ordered, tugging on Spike's upper body as if to lift him. Faith stepped back slightly.

"Are you nuts?" She regretted the words the moment they were spoken. Willow's eyes glinted dangerously.

"Faith, _help me,_" she repeated slowly, and with an ounce of venom. She didn't need to ask a third time.

It took three of the girls to lift and carry the vampire out of the alley and into the wide main road with its pools of flickering yellow light. Faith finally got a proper look at him—he looked no different than the last time she saw him.

The thought that he'd been moments from dust lingered conspicuously in her mind.

"You know, for a guy who took a nap in the middle of a war zone, he's looking pretty not-torn-apart." Kennedy observed.

"He's been resurrected, and not too long ago," Willow answered, "I knew I recognized something."

"Someone brought him back to life?" Faith asked.

"Someone, or something. C'mon, we've got to get back to Buffy."

Willow and Kennedy left to get the car, leaving Faith and the two little girls alone with the unconscious vampire. Faith stared at him.

Was it strange that all she could think about was that Buffy was going to have a fit?

Oh, Buffy had known Spike was alive. Andrew was a talkative little bitch, and had confessed to have working with the blonde five minutes after getting off his plane. Faith had heard about it through the grapevine.

Buffy hadn't spoken to her about it personally, but she and Willow had got to talking, and the witch had told her that Buffy was livid at not being told.

Faith didn't blame her.

Willow and Kennedy came back, and together they bundled the vampire into the back seat, sprawled over the laps of three very unhappy slayers. Faith tried to ignore the car's lurching as it ran over the bodies.

The half-hour drive took them fifteen minutes.

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